“Where?” says he.
“Right across the river,” says I. “There’s a feller lookin’ for a place to fish. City feller. Kind of big, with a gaudy vest on him.”
“What’s that?” says Tallow, sharp-like.
“With a gaudy vest on him,” says I. “Why?”
“All red and blue and orange and sich?”
“Looked that way,” says I; “anyhow, it was mighty dazzlin’.”
“Where was he?”
I pointed. “Right over there.”
“Mark,” says Tallow, “that was the feller I was followin’ yesterday. The man Wiggamore’s got lookin’ for George.”
“The f-f-feller I sat on last night?”